The Riddle of the Rises
by purpleshrub
Summary: Blake wakes alone in an unfamiliar landscape with no memory of how he got there. Gen.
1. Chapter 1

May 27, 2008

This is all the fault of a friend who shall go unnamed but who knows perfectly well who she is. Thanks for pushing me to finish it and then beta'ing to boot—this one's for you.

There are no ships in this story, though of course you are welcome to wear the ship or slash-tinted glasses of your choice. There are four chapters, and I think I'll post every five days or week or so. And while I don't write for the reviews, of course they're nice to get and help me know how I'm doing. I'd say more, but I'd probably give away the whole premise, so without further adieu….

The Riddle of the Rises

It was dark, with a kind of smokiness to the air. Blake blinked once and then again, rubbing his eyes. _Where am I?_

He had the sense that he was inside, but couldn't have pointed to any reason for feeling so—he saw no walls, and the ground was loose-packed dirt. Lazy-flowing puffs of smoke wound around his feet, chasing up his body. _Now, Roj_, he chided himself, _there's no need to feel unnerved. What's the last thing I remember?_

In the quiet the rustle of his clothing seemed unnaturally loud. Casting only a brief glance back at where he'd woken, Blake shuffled forward into the mist. He tilted his head up but if there was a ceiling, it was obscured, and if sky, it was cloudy into nothingness. "Hello! Anyone there?" Avon would be angry with him, giving away his position, not knowing who or what was out there.

The moment the thought entered his mind, there was a flash of memory. Avon snarling, "You _fool_." That was all. Blake remembered nothing more; not the context of Avon's comment, nor who else was there, nor indeed where _there_ was. Here?

A black shape rose before him like a specter, and Blake stretched out a hand to touch it. It was… bark? Pieces fell away and crumbled in his hands. It was a dead trunk, a husk of a burnt tree. But the smoke (mist? fog?) all about didn't have the greasy gray quality he associated with fire's destruction. It was almost… pillowy. "I'm outside, then," he said aloud, and his voice was swallowed up by the silence.

"You idiot," Avon seethed, so vividly Blake started. "Why do you always _assume_ knowledge about things at first glance?"

"Maybe not outside," Blake said aloud, but this jogged no memory.

Blake sat on the ground, leaning against the dead tree, talking to himself and to his absent crewmates. "I'm not on the Liberator. I've been over every inch of that ship and there's nothing like this."

"Maybe you're not here literally," Cally suggested. "Maybe it's a virtual reality—" she masterfully ignored Avon's sneer—"or a product of your own mind."

"That's a good point," Blake agreed with his inner Cally. "But how do I know if this is reality or not? I feel real…"

"And you would trust your own judgment on that?" Avon mocked.

"I feel my chest moving as I breathe," Blake reasoned. "The beating of my heart, even my blood moving through my body if I touch my fingers to my wrist or neck. I don't feel hungry, but I do feel the beginnings of thirst."

Jenna said, "You of all people should know that you can't always trust your senses. You've been brainwashed before."

"And virtual realities can simulate things like breath and heartbeat. Or so I've heard," Gan said.

"It could be worse," Vila said. "You're not bleeding and nothing's chasing you. Nothing you can see, anyway, because I suppose something could be stalking you—."

Blake waited—for agreement from Cally, for a cutting remark from Avon—but there was nothing more. "Hello?" he tried, hating the tremble in his voice. "Avon?"

He reluctantly left the tree and started walking. The sky, if it was a sky at all, never darkened. But that didn't necessarily mean anything. He had no concept of what time it was when he'd woken up. This planet could have exceptionally long days. Or no nights at all. More likely, it could be a polluted world or world with gaseous clouds blocking the changing light of the suns.

It was when he stepped on a skeleton that the adventure turned from confusing to truly frightening. He'd heard the brittle, crackling sound and looked down into the empty eye sockets of the skull. The bones were bleached and clean. There were no tooth marks of animals, no signs of trauma. Nor was there any clothing on the remains. Blake fought the urge to apologize to the long-dead person.

Beyond him or her there lay another skeleton, lying curled on what would have been the person's left side. Again, there were no clues to indicate how death had happened, no mutilation of the body—but Blake knew of no culture that left its dead alone to rot. He wound his way through a field of old death, looking for signs that anyone had been there more recently. Who would invent a virtual reality like this? It must be real.

_A snort, from his right._ "Oh, but of course. Because strange things are always more likely to be real than false."

Blake smiled. "I'm glad you're back, Avon. I missed you when you left."

"I never _left_, Blake. I was never here. You're alone. Are you capable of understanding that?"

"I—" Blake said, and then he remembered. _Really_ remembered.

_He was standing in the Zhonguans' Hall of Judgment, in the center of a circle of unsmiling faces. "I plead guilty," he said, his voice clear and carrying. "I only ask for leniency for my companions, who had no part in my plan."_

_The Speaker held an ivory staff. Inlaid obsidian eyes cast their sharp gaze upon the proceedings. "No part?" the Speaker said softly. "Did they not bring you here, using their knowledge and weapons on your behalf? Did they not try to steal you away as we came to arrest you?"_

"_They have a degree of loyalty to me," Blake admitted, hoping Avon would not choose this very moment to debate that point. "Our survival rests upon each other's cooperation. But they had no stake in my plans for your planet, in fact they argued against it. I was the sole instigator of our arrival on your shores. I ask all of your people who have had occasion to lead other men to not treat them as you do me. They deserve better."_

_The Speaker said only, "Do not concern yourself with their fates, Riddler, but think upon your own."_

Blake opened his eyes and saw Avon. "They sent you here too," Blake breathed, horrified and relieved in equal parts.

"Your powers of observation are as acute as always," Avon said.

Blake rose to his feet, shuddering as his hands brushed against delicate finger bones. "Is anyone else here?"

"I truly hope not," Avon said. "It's bad enough that you are."

"Have you found anything? Water, food, shelter?"

"There's a river and more dead trees not far from here. I only came this way when I heard you talking to yourself. Idiot."

"It worked, though," Blake protested. "We found each other."

One sardonic eyebrow lifted, and Blake could see the other man bite down a comment about who had found whom, exactly. "Even an idiot is lucky once in a while. I suggest you quiet down, lest you deplete your store of it."

The water was dirty and sluggish, but the dead wood burned readily enough, sending up curls of smoke that blended into the hazy air. Avon found a stone with a depression in the center, enough to hold a little water.

"I remember the trial," Blake said, trying to ignore his growing hunger. The pangs in his stomach had started shortly after he gulped down his share of the hot, brackish water. "But I don't remember why we went to the planet in the first place."

"You had a death wish, obviously."

"Be serious, Avon."

"I am serious." Avon's voice was a growl, his dark eyes predatory in the gloom. "There is no other explanation for you approaching Zhongua. Moreover, you lied to us about the planet. Told us you'd been there before, knew things Zen didn't."

"I don't remember any of that," Blake said. "I'm sorry."

"Spare me your useless apologies."

_Blake?_

Blake looked around wildly. "Cally? Avon—did you hear…. Avon?"

The other man was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

June 6, 2008

Blake stared dumbly at the place where Avon had been, even stretched out his hand, as if hoping the other man's shape was merely lost in the mist. Indeed, the haziness seemed if anything to be growing, and Blake could see no farther than three feet around in any direction. It would probably be best to wait where he was for Avon to come back. He had water—well, the stone they'd boiled some in was around somewhere, underfoot. And truth be told Blake was starting to feel tired.

So he didn't know why he rose to his feet, staggering slightly, and continued walking. He shuffled forward slowly, his back to the mass grave, absently scratching an itch and squinting ahead. No one, real or imagined, joined him on his passage.

Then he missed a depression in the ground and fell. Instinctively he put his hands out to break the fall, and felt something in his left arm give, sending him rolling for another moment downhill. Pain flared up along his lower arm. "I know," Blake said to the air, "Stupid of me." He half-expected a retort from Avon, but the Liberator's cynic was contrary even in Blake's subconscious, and made no answer. Blake wasn't sure how long he lay on the grayish dirt, breathing slowly and carefully, but eventually he rolled onto his back, cradling the injured arm. He closed his eyes and counted, "One, two, three, four…" waiting for the pain to subside just a little. He reached 48 before feeling sufficiently calm to sit up.

His arm was already bruising, hinting at the damage below the skin. "At least the bone's not sticking out," came Vila's voice at his ear. Blake started and looked around wildly. Vila was nowhere to be seen, but the air did seem a bit clearer. Perhaps it was the slightly lower altitude.

He was sitting up against a sloping bank, and he could see another uphill bank a few yards away. The bottom was strewn with small rocks and it seemed fairly obvious that once upon a time, there had been a river here. The parallel banks went to Blake's left only a short distance before curving out of sight, but to his right they ran straight into the mist. "Follow the river," Blake mused, staring at it. "But which way?"

_He wasn't supposed to look out the windows of the small-engined plane, but he didn't have anything to lose, and his gaolers didn't much care what he did, as long as he was bound. Blake's gaze traced over the barren landscape. He asked, "What's that? A river?"_

_One gaoler only grunted, but the other said, "Once it was. Long ago. There are stories about it."_

"_Stories? Like what?"_

"_There's a creation story about it. You really want to hear it?"_

"_I do," Blake said._

_The talkative gaoler—he was fair-haired, the younger of the two—looked to his fellow for approval, and got a disinterested shrug and roll of the eyes in return. Taking that as permission, he said, "We say that the first people were made of dust and lived on the Great Mountain, in the middle of the Just-Beginning World, in the middle of existence. Each god had one follower, at first. When followers fell in love, they had two children, one for each god._

"_But one day a woman gave birth to three sons. The gods convened and agreed that the only fair solution was to kill one of the children. Heartbroken, the woman prayed for a new god to solve her problem._

"_The Riddler came to her in a dream, saying her thought had given birth to him, and that he was to be called KUANSHU, God of Mercy to Babies. Overjoyed, the woman pledged her son's loyalty and the loyalty of all his line to KUANSHU."_

_He fell silent. Blake, who had been looking along the strip of darker earth to a cluster of eight hills, looked to him. "And? What happened?"_

"_The gods realized that even with all the shelter of their Mountain, they could not protect their followers from the deceptions of the Riddler. One god dashed His fist against the mountainside. Trees flew up in the air and were sent flying over the land. One god cursed with anger, and His fury split the Mountain into the Eight Sacred Rises. One god wept, and His tears flowed out from the Rises in three directions, all the way to the ends of the land. And one god declared that only those not fooled by the Riddler—true holy people—be permitted to stay at the Rises._

"_They gathered the people together and judged the faith of each, each god choosing one person. One person allowed to stay with his god forever in the bliss of the Rises. The others were cast out, and they walked the land, praying for a sign. The benevolent gods granted signs when their followers reached a place that was rich and ready for life. So the earth was populated. So the People began."_

"_That's a beautiful story," Blake said in admiration. "And you tell it very well. I'll always remember it."_

_His older guard snorted. "That's not saying much."_

The younger gaoler had been stricken by that comment, Blake recalled, and suspected that the young man had never escorted a prisoner marked for death before. He hadn't spoken to Blake again.

Where was he….? Yes. The mountains. Rises. Whatever. He had to get to them. He wasn't sure why, but he felt very strongly about it.

"If that isn't a fitting epitaph, I don't know what is," came Avon's dry voice.

"What?"

"It describes you to a T. 'Doesn't know why, but feels strongly about it all the same.' Perhaps if you thought about _why_ things are as they are a bit more often, you wouldn't end up in messes like this."

"Maybe," Blake granted. "But I'll make for the mountains all the same. But which way…. I suppose one way is as good as another."

"When in fact, one way will lead you to these 'rises,' and one directly away from them. It is not remotely possible for one way to be as good as the other."

Blake ignored that, gritting his teeth and pushing himself up with his good arm. "I have no idea where I am, though," he said. "If the mountains are a day's walk away or on the other side of the planet. The air's too cloudy to see them, even if they are close. Both ways have an equal chance at being the correct one."

Avon had no reply to this.

"Left," Blake decided, and started walking.

It was not an easy journey by any means. Not only did Blake's arm pain him, but pangs of hunger bit at him and his throat started to burn. Sometimes he heard the voices of his crew, such as when he grumbled, "I should have brought the stone, with water in it."

"It would have been too heavy for you," Gan said, not unkindly.

Jenna's breath ghosted over his neck, although that might have been wind rushing down the valley of the dead river. "It couldn't hold enough water to justify its weight."

"And you'd have had to leave it behind when you busted your arm anyway," chimed in Vila.

"I did the right thing," Blake told himself, reciting trite old phrases gleaned from ancient history texts. _A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step; another minute of life is still life._

"And a single sip of water is still a moment without thirst." Avon, of course.

Avon was Blake's constant, though. The other voices flitted about, sometimes there and sometimes not, saying (Blake suspected) nothing more or less than what Blake wanted to hear. But even when Avon fell silent, Blake could still feel sharp eyes on his back. Avon would never sugarcoat the truth.

They'd been alone for a while now, Cally's voice fading in an echo, Vila's whine caught up and carried away by a whistling gust of wind.

"It'd be nice if I could see you," Blake said.

Avon sighed. "Of course. You're already experiencing auditory hallucinations, so naturally adding visual ones as well would be reassuring."

The reminder was painful. "I wish I wasn't alone."

"You wish we had been sentenced to death along with you?"

"I fear you may have been anyway. I don't remember why this has happened yet, but I think you tried to help me. I think you tried to protect me from my own actions. Why do you always do that?"

"We all do."

"Why?"

Blake stumbled, jostling his broken arm, and swore silently as pain exploded stars behind his eyes. Avon didn't answer.

Blake's lips were growing parched, his eyelids heavy. He called for Avon a few times, then Cally and Jenna and Gan and Vila and then Avon again just for good measure. More depressed than he'd ever been to date, he sank down to the ground. In doing so, he inadvertently moved the injured arm again, and it was in the grayness between sleep and unconsciousness that he slumped the rest of the way to the ground, his mind going blank.


	3. Chapter 3

June 26, 2008

I completely forgot about updating this story! (Gee, can't imagine how, what with the numerous detailed reviews and all)(coughs).

Anyway, my apologies. Here's part 3:

He awoke itching. Dry skin flaked off as he raked the fingernails of his good arm across his flesh. He was scarcely aware that he was conscious—his mind was empty as he scored thin pink lines across his legs, his chest, the side of his neck. Though his eyes were open he thought of nothing.

He came to himself when the scratching brought forth blood, staring horrified at the streaks on his skin. He actually leaned back away from the sight, accidentally putting weight on his left arm in the process. The resulting pain was dizzying in its intensity, making him gasp out words his usually disapproved of and clench his good hand in a fist that hurt. He rode out the pain, though, and noticed that the fog was a little bit lessened again.

There was nothing to do but keep walking, so he struggled to his feet and focused on the ground before him. The swirls of smoke seemed textured, and solid, as though he could bat the wisps around his head away or kick clumps of it out of his path. That made Blake start wondering if there was any sort of pattern to how the mist was thicker at some times, less so at others. Maybe it had something to do with the time of day, although the level of grey light had yet to noticeably change. Or perhaps there was some connection to the temperature, although that had stayed constant as well.

Blake wished he could remember more about the Zhonguans and why he had insisted on bringing the Liberator to their planet. He remembered now telling to the crew that there was something significant about Zhongua, something kept off all recorded information about the planet. He wished he could remember what that "something" was—he had felt very strongly that he was right, but perhaps the rumour he'd heard was a ruse concocted by the Federation.

Not that the Federation had much to do with Zhongua. That was what had swayed Jenna, that the Zhongua was no friend of the corrupt bureaucracy. Whatever awaited on the Dusty Twins, the crew would not be sold out to Servalan.

"Dusty Twins?" Blake mused aloud, only in that moment realizing how raspy his voice was. "What does that mean?" He let the question hang in the air a moment, but none of his friends spoke into the silence, and he resigned himself to his solitude. He cast his mind back to the Liberator's approach—to seeing the pale brown planet and the cold blue-grey of its moon.

It came to Blake in a flash of understanding that the planet and the moon were the "twins" and that the moon was inhabited, while the planet was not. He'd expected a great deal of native writing, native tongues, native coin. The first warning had been when they couldn't find a comm. signal. But he'd shrugged it off. The Zhonguans were isolationist and cut off from the Federation; what need had they for such a system?

Avon had been less sanguine, of course, throwing cutting remarks towards Blake until Blake set him an arbitrary task that took him out of the room. Avon's eyes had narrowed, and he left, but not before he gave Blake a look that said the matter wasn't finished.

They hadn't finished the conversation, though, at least not that Blake could remember. Vila had excused himself to the chambers they'd been provided and Gan saw himself to the kitchens to inquire about the planet's diet (a precaution they'd taken ever since the planet Cally referred to as "having different mores," Vila referred to as "sickening," and Avon referred to as, "not entirely grasping the concept of 'self-sustaining population.'" Gan and Cally, as the most diplomatic among the crew save Blake himself, were the ones to discreetly make such inquiries). Blake had wanted the others to join him in the reception with the Councilors, but Avon had begged off, citing a desire to "look around." Blake was tempted to insist until he saw the malicious curve to Avon's mouth, one that a person who knew Avon less well might think was a smile. He'd let Avon go.

He'd been concerned enough by Avon's absence at dinner to radio him, and got a snarled, "I'm _busy_ now," in response, none of their "in distress" code words used. He hadn't seen or heard from the man again until Avon threw open the doors to Blake's room, hissing, "We need to go, _now_."

Blake was still rubbing his eyes, wondering how Avon had gotten into his supposedly locked room and saying, "What?" when the gendarmes marched in. Blake hadn't been concerned by their swords until the last came in gripping the arm of an abnormally quiet Vila, a knife at his throat. Blake had surrendered immediately, Avon lingering, his hand resting lightly upon his gun, until the gendarme pressed his blade more firmly against Vila's pale skin, and the thief bit his lip rather than cry out.

Vila was given to whinging, even at the most inopportune of times, and Blake found his continued silence unnerving. Avon had put his hands in the air then, and as a gendarme gingerly lifted the weapon off Avon's belt, Blake couldn't tell whether Avon's dark look was directed at Vila or his captor.

They were taken different ways once they reached the gaol, and Blake hadn't seen him again. Painful to think that his last command to Avon could be one made merely to avoid criticism; merited criticism, it seemed. Painful in a different way to consider his own selfish hope—that should he die here, Avon might regret his curtness, even a little. Painful that he should want, _need_ his crew's approval, affection and respect.

Pain. Blake looked down and faltered. He'd been unconsciously scratching the entire time, and his right shoulder was an angry red. It looked as though he'd been clawed by a cat. How had he not felt his fingernails collecting blood? How had he not smelled the tang of copper in the air?

He stumbled to the bank—it was steeper here, more vertical—and leaned against it, not daring to sit down. His tongue swiped across his hard-plated chapped lips. Everything stayed the same, always. He remembered now the low technological development of the Zhonguans, a dash to his hopes, so a virtual reality seemed less likely. He guessed that he was on the planet, the uninhabited twin. He guessed that despite the breathable air, this was where the Zhonguans went to die.

The mist was closing in on him; he felt besieged. Determined to not mutilate himself further, Blake used his right hand to brace his left arm. The pain took his breath away, but as he straightened up, the air was clearer.

Blake missed it at first. He stumbled along the path of the old river, weaving like a drunkard, occasionally bumping his right side. He cradled his injured arm tightly, keeping it carefully immobile. That way the pain was a mere persistent throbbing, rather than searing across his mind.

Sometimes, though, it was the left bank he stumbled against. He was driven to his knees by it, and tears—liquid he knew he couldn't afford to lose—sprang to his eyes. It was after the fifth or sixth time this happened that his mind made the connection. Hoping desperately that he was wrong, he stared at the opposing bank and counted off 15 seconds, his heart sinking as the fog intensified before his eyes. Then he intentionally moved the badly-broken arm, gritting his teeth against the resulting flare of pain. The fog receded.

Was the fog entirely in Blake's mind? He wanted to think it was not, at least not entirely. If it was, that threw every observation he'd made, every conclusion he'd drawn, into doubt. He'd still been rational, hadn't he? He'd still used logic, done the best he could with what he knew. But he'd thought he was inside at first, hadn't he? Despite the earth, despite the stones, despite the sky?

"Don't forget the hallucinations," came a snide voice. Blake looked to his right and there was Avon. He looked as real as life, leaning stiffly against the embankment as though he was trying to empathize but not quite managing it.

"I don't know if heading for the mountains was right," Blake admitted, feeling lost. "I don't know what to do."

They stood in silence for a while, Blake determinedly ignoring the itching.

Avon finally said, "Inaction is a choice, too."

"Then what do I do?" Blake asked.

Avon sneered. "Are you truly asking that? Are you actually prepared to curl up in the dirt until you're unable to rouse at all?"

Blake imagined for a moment lying forever on the riverbed, his clothing eventually disintegrating upon his bones, the brown sky hiding him in perpetuity. "No," he murmured.

"That's the idiotic bravery I expected," Avon said, his tone oddly satisfied. "You must know what you need to do."

Blake didn't need to say it aloud, but he did, his voice cracking mid-sentence. "I need to stay alert, and I need to… hurt… to do so."

He staggered to the opposite bank, Avon trailing after him, and shuffled along, leaning against it. He counted to ten over and over. On ten he jostled his arm, or prodded at it.

It was the hardest thing he'd ever done.


	4. Chapter 4

July 8, 2008

It was a blow to his ego, almost; he'd always thought that his deepest struggles were moral, ideological. He'd wrestled with whether his gains against the Federation were worth the danger to his followers and his crew. He'd never been concerned with the risks to himself. He'd been tortured, he'd been hungry and dirty and infested with parasites. He'd stood amongst his peers convicted of a heinous crime—one whose very existence he found repugnant—escaped a prison ship, faced certain death on any number of occasions.

"Not certain death, if you escaped it," Avon said. "Ten." When Blake gave him a blank look, Avon repeated, "_Ten_." Blake tried to raise his left arm, and when he could focus again, Avon gave a sharp nod of approval, but his eyes were unreadable.

Blake drew in a breath and stepped forward again, collecting his scattered thoughts. He'd experienced pain before, certainly. He'd had far worse injuries than a broken arm. But they had been inflicted upon him by others, whether by accident or intent. Physical pain, that was something he had to endure until his mother came with soft words, until Cally laid a cold compress on the injury; until Avon, unsympathetic, jabbed him with a sedative.

But this—intentionally causing himself such pain—required will of a different sort. Already Avon had snapped at him twice. He was sure the tens were growing closer together.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. _Flexing his left wrist_.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. _Squeezing his left arm._

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. _Bending his elbow oh--oh—oh--_

"Careful," Avon snapped. "Passing out will do you no good at all."

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. _When had he developed a rash?_ It dappled his skin. Each pink rosette burned. Blake imagined jumping into a cold lake. He imagined cream being rubbed into his skin. He imagined sitting for a minute or hour or day and scratching.

"Move!" said Avon, his voice harsh.

"You're such a bastard," Blake complained, but he started again. _Right, left, right, left_.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. _"Don't go," Blake pleaded_.

"I thought you thought I was a bastard."

"You are. But don't leave. I can't… I can make myself do it if you're watching. I can't fail when you can see." He felt miserable and ashamed at the admission, waited for Avon to mock it. He felt the other's eyes burning into his back.

Avon's voice was cold and implacable. "_Ten_."

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. _The slope was so gradual and his progress so slow that Blake hadn't noticed it_. Avon paced ahead of him and Blake realized it was a hill of some sort. How long had his path been rising? Ten minutes? Since the beginning?

"_Ten_." Blake's lower lip was bloody now, between his dehydration and biting it, but it was not enough to keep the mist at bay. He closed his eyes moved his arm.

"Don't waste your time," Avon said. "Move."

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten_._ _Was the slope one of the rises?_ Blake couldn't even hope for that. He no longer cared if he reached them. His concern was only the next count of ten. All he heard was Avon's voice and his own laboured breath. All he felt was the itch and the thirst and the pain.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. _The ground was lined with stones now_. Once they had been smooth, fit together neatly. Now they were broken. The banks, too, were not earth, but mostly-crumpled stone walls, memoirs of a different time.

One two three four five six seven eight nine ten. _Blake understood. Blake remembered_.

Ten. _The Zhonguans had lived on the planet once._

Ten_. They were scientists, some of the finest in the known worlds._

Ten_. The Federation had brought them here. In the early days._

Ten_. When the Zhonguans had broken off contact, the Federation had been busy with some other crisis._

Ten_. They sent a few emissaries, who never returned._

Ten_. The Federation had grown faster than the administration could keep up with. They let the Zhonguans go, erased mentions of the project. They believed the Zhonguans _would _work against them. Today's leaders would not have let them go so easily. It was a different time._

"Blake," Avon said. "Ten." _Blake's first mentor in the Resistance had an ancestor who'd gone to Zhongua. He'd trusted the man's information implicitly_.

"Blake, focus. You need to do this. _Ten_." _They were all wrong_.

"Listen to me! Ten!" _There was an accident_.

Avon screamed at Blake, but couldn't touch him. He wasn't real. But he'd keep saying "ten" until Blake hurt himself. Blake did, just so he could have a few moments to think.

_The accident had released poisonous gas into the atmosphere. Created an explosion so big it ripped apart the mountain research base, one they'd thought would shield any explosion. The centre of the mountain, where they had worked, where they had lived, was split into eight peaks, like an opened lotus_.

"Ten." _The water under the mountain gushed out, tumbling down the sheer rock face, only loosely staying to the aqueducts._

"Ten." _Millions had died._

"If you're ever going to listen to me, Blake, then listen now. Ten!" _How many deaths were from the explosion? How many from the gas? How many from the unleashed water that tore through houses? How many in the damaged shuttles the survivors flew to the moon? No one would ever know._

"Ten." _He was here now, at the centre_. No gods or their disciples waited for him. No bone even, as Blake perched on the edge of the crater.

"Ten." _They hated the Federation, but they hated technology more. The surviving shuttles were only maintained for people like Blake. The advocates of complications and technology. The Riddlers_.

"Ten." _Blake remembered the Creation story_. The Riddler was the Devil. He wondered, in a vague way, which of the survivors had picked and chosen how to present the past? Or had they all agreed on it?

Avon looked… supremely angry. "I know," Blake mumbled. "Ten, right?"

How had Avon gotten so far away from him? Blake knew he couldn't walk the edge of the crater without falling. He could go no further. He said, "Thank you for trying," and twisted his arm, gasping at the pain of it.

"You _idiot_," Avon breathed, eyes wide.

Blake blinked. "You're worried!" he accused.

"No I'm not." But Blake knew the truth.

The world was graying out. Blake saw Avon rushing to his side. Wait…

"You can touch me," Blake said, unable to track the thought. Hallucinations couldn't touch things, could they?

The world dissolved.

* * *

He woke in his bed on the Liberator, to Cally's sympathetic smile. He tried to speak, failed, cleared his throat, and tried again. "Tell me it wasn't all a dream."

Her smile grew. "It wasn't all a dream. Welcome back, Blake."

"How long?"

"Since we found you? Nine days. The atmosphere of the planet interfered with our equipment. We couldn't transport down and use instruments to look for you."

Blake frowned, feeling tired but wanting to understand. "Then how did you find me?"

"To be precise, our equipment didn't work below a certain altitude. Only one spot in the quadrant you were left had a place we could transport down to."

"The crater," Blake nodded.

"Yes. I tried speaking to you telepathically, but you were affected by the poison in the air as soon as you were dropped. A hundred years ago, you'd have been dead in minutes."

"How long was I there?"

"A little over six hours."

He was stunned. Six hours? He knew it had been less than a week, since he hadn't eaten. But he was sure it had been days. Forcing himself past his shock—he would need to deal with it later—he asked, "What happened on your end?"

"Their security measures were ludicrously simple," Avon drawled. Blake started; he hadn't seen the other man, sitting in the corner. "And the rest of us were imprisoned together. We escaped within the hour and… _delayed_ the men who took you to the planet, when they returned."

"They told us the region they had dropped you in and we came as fast as we could." Cally stood. "I'll let you two talk."

"Why?"

Cally darted a nervous look at Avon. "On the mountaintop… Blake… Avon, Jenna, Gan and I were all there. But you only saw Avon." She seemed about to say something else, then thought the better of it. "I'm very glad you're doing better," she finally said, and gave him a real, warm smile before slipping from the room.

Avon rose and walked catlike to stand at the foot of Blake's bed. Blake was astounded to realize the other man was at a loss for words. "I only saw you," Blake echoed Cally, "and what else?"

Avon said, "You were fevered. Delirious. You kept trying to hurt yourself, until we restrained you, thanking me each time. When you were immobilized you begged me to harm you; when I did not you fell into mostly incoherent apologies." There was no expression colouring his face or voice at all, and Blake realized that Avon was very upset.

"On the planet," he began. "I hallucinated."

"A side effect of the poison, yes. I analyzed it, finding an anecdote."

Blake could picture Avon running scenarios by Zen, his voice more and more clipped until he found the correct one.

"I hallucinated everyone, but most of all you."

"And I hurt you, this hallucination. How?"

"You couldn't physically, of course." Blake thought back. "You goaded me, taunted me, until I did it myself." He looked up, and saw Avon's stricken expression, before it was replaced by a blank mask.

"I see," Avon said, although he didn't at all, and turned to go.

"No!" Blake shouted. "Listen to me!" Avon actually froze in his tracks at that, though he didn't turn. "The poison… it made me tired. Some part of me knew I had to get to higher ground. It clouded my mind." Literally and figuratively. "I discovered that physical pain cleared my mind, enough to stay awake. Enough to walk."

Avon hadn't turned, but Blake could tell he was listening. "Even counting to fifteen, the fog came back and I started to fall. I needed to jolt myself on every count of ten. To stay alert."

He was terrified he wasn't explaining it well at all, that Avon would take the few steps to the door and leave thinking who knew what. He faltered. "Avon?"

On the planet, when he called out to the others, that was when the hallucination dissolved and they disappeared. But this was real; Avon turned, and Blake couldn't read his thoughts.

"The others… I knew that if I was hurting enough, they would say what I wanted to hear. They would let me rest." Something flickered in Avon's eyes, and Blake knew he didn't need to say it, but he did. "You tell me the truth, even when it's painful. I needed you, Avon, to keep me going. Alone, I would have faltered. I was ready to give up. So I thank you."

Avon rolled his eyes then, and Blake knew they would be all right. "You do realize it wasn't actually me."

"It was in all the ways that mattered."

An eyebrow lifted. "Perhaps you're not as fully recovered as Cally believed. Luckily, I've synthesized another medication that should help. It tastes utterly vile, I admit. But then, that's all you deserve for worrying the more sentimental oafs in the crew."

"You're not one of them, of course," Blake teased.

"Naturally not." Avon paused at the door. "And get some rest. You look terrible." A sardonic smile, and he was gone.

Blake lay back against his pillow. The mission had been a wash, but that was alright. Maybe someday someone would be able to persuade the Zhonguans that not all technology was bad, but that was a task for another person. There were more questions about the trip to be discussed, but he knew enough for now.

So smiling, Blake took the advice of his friend (although Avon would surely take exception to the term). He closed his eyes and slept.

The end.

Thanks for reading. And just so you know, reviewers have good karma. : )


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